


Resemblance

by Warp5Complex_Archivist



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-01
Updated: 2006-03-01
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:41:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Warp5Complex_Archivist/pseuds/Warp5Complex_Archivist
Summary: Postep, 3.10 "Similitude." (03/07/2004)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Kylie Lee, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Warp 5 Complex](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Warp_5_Complex), the software of which ceased to be maintained and created a security hazard. To make future maintenance and archive growth easier, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but I may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Warp 5 Complex collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Warp5Complex).

Tucker examined the sensor microcircuitry for discontinuities. After his warp engine modifications had been so spectacularly successful, it had become apparent that improvements to the long-range scanners were the next priority in order to prevent more disasters such as the one that had resulted when they had implemented their increased speed capabilities. "It's the Captain's birthday next week," he commented.

"Is it," T'Pol replied neutrally, handing him the microwelder he indicated.

He turned to look at her teasingly. "Don't tell me you don't remember. I thought that Vulcan memory was infallible."

"Mr. Tucker, while I am perfectly capable of remembering the birthdates of every crewmember on board Enterprise, if I were to remember all such irrelevant facts I would have little room for the important ones—such as the fact that you are about to cross-circuit the sensor coils with the deck five lighting," she replied acerbically.

He quickly turned back to look at what he was doing. "Very funny," he said after a moment. "First your memory's going, now you're turnin' into a regular practical joker. What's next, dancing lessons?" he continued with his head fully inside the field modulation assembly.

"I am merely concerned for your welfare while around high voltage circuitry, you have only just fully recovered from your last ...incident," she said in a neutral tone. "And I doubt I would make a good dancer, Mr. Tucker, as I am entirely without a sense of rhythm."

"Now I know you're kiddin' me," he said, "and you're changin' the subject. The Captain's birthday, remember?"

"While you may consider my memory to be feeble, Commander, it has not failed me to that extent. I do remember what we were discussing, I simply have no idea why."

"Damn it's hot in here ...we've been here in the Expanse for a few months now and we haven't had too many excuses for a good party," Tucker replied, emerging from the crawlspace and wiping his hands on his pant legs. In fact, as they both well knew, the most recent event of note had been a funeral, a thought that he did not care to linger on. "I know the crew could really use some festivities. Say a good surprise party. As first officer, crew morale is within your bailiwick, like it or not. Besides, I've noticed the captain's been a little tense lately." He looked sideways at her, wondering if she had noticed that the Captain seemed to be avoiding him—he had a hundred guesses why, and none of them made him happy.

"Very well. However, as first officer, it is also my responsibility to delegate," T'Pol said as she moved over to the status board to check on the success of the chief engineer's work. "Your modifications appear to have been successful. Keep me informed of the effect on the field stability. You can also keep me informed on the birthday plans."

Tucker watched her depart and shook his head. "Rostov," he yelled up to the catwalk, "we're goin' to need to monitor the sensor field stability for a while, set it up would ya?"

"Aye sir," Rostov replied, sliding down the gangway. "So, sir, a surprise party?" he inquired, as he started programming the status board.

"Why, are you askin' to be volunteered for the organizing committee too?" Tucker asked him with a grin.

"Uh, no sir, I think the responsibility would be too much for me at this early stage in my career," Rostov replied. "Surprise parties for the captain definitely seem like a senior officer tasking."

"Right," Tucker grumbled. He did feel more than a little trepidation; with the Captain's current mood, all bets were off as to how he would take this. "All the work and all the blame if it goes wrong. Me and my big mouth."

* * *

Chef had risen to the occasion with enthusiasm. He had taken over the menu planning and had also suggested Ensign Akito for the decorating committee, as she had a flair for converting bits of leftover debris into decorative works of whimsy.

"We're also going to need some noisemakers, or sparklers, or some such," Tucker commented to Reed. Of all of his crewmates, only Malcolm seemed to have been able to approach a semblance of normality in dealing with him, having returned to sharing occasional breaks with him in the mess hall. "Nothing too explosive, but a few little pops and bangs might be appropriate."

Reed's eyes lit up. "Perhaps I could come up with something from the leftover andalite fuses ...I'll get on it right away."

"Just make sure you clear it with the safety committee!" Tucker yelled after Reed's departing form.

"Okay," he muttered to himself, "food, check; decorations, check; noise, check. Music, we need music, speeches, fun and games ...Hoshi!" he called out as she entered the mess. "C'mere," he indicated the chair Reed had just vacated.

She looked warily at him. "Recruiting more little helpers?" she asked, smiling awkwardly at him.

Tucker grinned. "You got me there. We're talking, music, speeches or maybe a celebrity roast, and games. Which one do you want?"

She perked up. "Games, definitely. I love games. And the roast is definitely your job. Travis will do music, won't you?" she asked of him as he sat down at the third chair.

"Sure, I can do music, although I don't exactly know the Captain's tastes," he said agreeably.

"I can help you out there, but don't worry too much about it, we want music for everyone. Lots of variety, and make it something that'll lift everybody's spirits," Tucker instructed. "This is supposed to be fun for everyone, including the Captain. We've got a week to organize this thing, so let's do a real good job, okay?" He pushed his chair back and said, "Thanks for the help, guys, really appreciate it. We're gonna have a committee meeting day after tomorrow at 2100, so be ready with your plans."

"Aye sir," Travis said. "I'll have the playlist organized."

"Maybe a little amateur talent?" Trip heard Hoshi suggesting to Travis as he departed.

* * *

"Enter," T'Pol instructed, and Tucker stepped into her quarters. She had just finished lighting the numerous candles that lit her room for the neuropressure sessions.

Trip removed his shirt and perched on his side of the cot, back facing T'Pol.

"Please commence your breathing, Commander." T'Pol no longer made casual conversation with him during their neuropressure sessions, and the atmosphere appeared charged with unspoken words.

After a few purposeful breaths, Trip said, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, "Did ya want to hear about the plans for the party?"

"Provided you can tell me without constantly turning to look at me," she replied. It was disturbing to her how the commander found it constantly necessary to look at her while they spoke, as though his words would somehow mean more if he made eye contact. In fact, the eye contact did add something to their conversations, but it seemed to have little to do with the topic under discussion. It made her feel decidedly odd, as though he was seeing something in her, something particularly fascinating...just as Sim had...she realized that she had allowed her mind to drift from his reply, that had to do with holding the party in the mess hall, and the members of the organizing committee, and -

"You are expecting me to attend the organizing committee meeting?"

"Sure, you're second in command, and you're also the safety committee," he replied, starting to turn his head.

"Please Mr. Tucker, eyes forward," she said with a hint of impatience. "I have little to contribute to such a meeting," she continued. "You may summarize the outcomes to me at a later time."

"You are the definition of the word party-pooper, you know that?" Trip complained. "Can't you just get into the spirit a bit?"

She continued to press on the areas on either side of the eighth vertebra without answering for a few moments. Despite her efforts to remain emotionally detached from the Commander after his recovery, he had an ability to get behind her defences that was most unnerving. "Very well," she found herself agreeing. "I will observe. Provided you refrain from moving for the next fifteen minutes except at my request."

He found the next fifteen minutes particularly trying as he tried to remain still while every remote portion of his anatomy itched (or exhibited other equally distracting symptoms) at intervals throughout.

* * *

The planning meeting had been held in Trip's quarters while the Captain was up in the war room going over the improved long-range field charts that had resulted from the sensor modifications. It had been a relief to spend some time with the other members of the senior staff in a situation that did not result in awkward pauses and uncomfortable glances.

However, the meeting had gone well, except for some issues with Reed's selection of noisemakers—for such a cautious type his inhibitions definitely left him when there were explosives involved. Tucker wondered idly if there was some deep-rooted psychological issue that could explain it.

The others had departed except for T'Pol, who had remained behind—he had suggested they might as well do the neuropressure in his quarters that night. She had worn an outfit to the meeting that he had not seen before, a peculiar shimmery shade of brownish-green that accentuated her skin as she sat on his bed waiting for him to disrobe.

"Is there a problem Mr. Tucker?" she enquired as he stood staring at her.

He turned away quickly to remove his shirt so that she could not see his blush at the direction his thoughts had been turning.

"I haven't had much chance to practice the breathing routine," he said, for once not turning to look at her as he lay down on his stomach. "This party organizin's been taking up all my spare time."

"It is important to maintain your practice routine," she said firmly as she massaged his neck with her thumbs. "You are doing well, but it is easy to regress into bad habits if you do not maintain your level of proficiency."

"Sure, I'll practice some more tonight after our session," he agreed. "But we need to talk about the speeches."

"Speeches?" she queried, pushing at the base of his skull, which evinced a grimace that was a combination of discomfort and relief from Tucker. His cerebral cortex was still a bit tender from the operation, leaving him with a dull headache most of the time.

"Yeah," he managed to squeeze out between his teeth. "It's called a roast. The idea is to develop a sense of camaraderie by exchanging personal stories and information about someone we admire. We talk about what a great guy the Captain is, tell jokes and stories about him," he elaborated.

She pondered this information. "And you would like me to contribute to this?"

"Well, you are his exec, it's expected."

"No one expects me to tell jokes," she pointed out wryly.

He chuckled. "No, I guess not," he said, trying to imagine T'Pol doing a stand-up routine. "But you can do the serious appreciation speech, that's the windup after the rest of us do the personal stories and jokes."

"Very well," she agreed. "That should not be too difficult, as I do have great admiration for the Captain."

For some reason, this statement nagged at Tucker long after T'Pol had left. For pity's sake, he'd asked her to make the speech, and he too felt great admiration for the man who was his Captain and his best friend. Admit it, it's the fact that T'Pol feels that way that's bothering you, he chastised himself. These days he only talks to her when he talks to anyone at all. He climbed into bed and closed his eyes, resolutely trying not to think of all the questions that were nagging him.

* * *

Two days later, before their neuropressure session, T'Pol said, "Would you be willing to listen to the speech I have prepared for the Captain's party? I would appreciate your constructive criticism."

Trip felt a rush of pleasure at the implied camaraderie of this statement, as innocent as it was. He sat down on the bed and settled back. "Shoot," he said. She raised an eyebrow queryingly and he rolled his eyes.

"You know what it means," he prompted, "go on."

"When I first met Captain Archer," she started, "he was in the process of excoriating the most senior Vulcan representatives on Earth. I thought he was arrogant, intransigent, and lacking in the wisdom necessary to lead Earth's first interstellar starship. I was less than pleased to find that I was to be assigned to Enterprise as the Vulcan High Command's representative, in order to provide advice to the Captain from Vulcan's wealth of interstellar experience. I soon discovered that some of the adjectives I had applied to Captain Archer could equally be applied to the Vulcan High Command, and that we had a great deal to learn from each other."

She continued with a description of their evolving understanding over the next two years. "I could not have anticipated the friendships that would be formed with the humans on board this ship, Captain Archer foremost amongst them. It is my sincerest hope that our friendship endures long past the success of this mission and the return of Enterprise to Earth."

Tucker sat silently for a moment, and then slowly began to clap. "T'Pol, that was a beautiful speech. I wouldn't change a thing."

Was that a momentary look of pleasure at his comments that flitted across her face? "Thank you, commander, are you sure it was not too wordy?"

"Nope, just right. But it's going to be a hard act to be in front of," he said ruefully. "You get all the good lines, I get to be the clown as usual."

She sat down on the bed beside him. "I do not know what you mean, Mr. Tucker. If you are referring to your ability to make others laugh, then I can assure you that it is unique and valued amongst the crew. And you are quite capable of giving praise and encouragement without engaging in humour, you do so many times with your team in Engineering. Although I find it continually surprising, your command style is your own and it is remarkably effective."

He looked at her, taken aback by her praise. "Well, thanks," he said, fumbling for words. "I appreciate that."

She inclined her head and indicated his t-shirt. He stripped and she placed her hands under his jawline. He closed his eyes in order to avoid gazing into her eyes in most inappropriate manner. Their session proceeded in silence for some time. Tucker pondered the strangeness of his relationship with this enigmatic, strong-minded, intelligent, gorgeous woman who had started out as antagonistic as he, and had become considerably more to him.

Suddenly, T'Pol's hands dropped to her side. "Is there a problem?" she queried.

"What do you mean?" Tucker replied, his eyes opening in surprise.

"You have been completely silent for more than 10 minutes," she stated. "That is entirely unlike you."

"Just thinkin'," he said, unwilling to amplify on his thoughts.

"Anything you would care to talk about?" she persisted. He had the feeling she knew he had been thinking about her, that she wanted him to tell her.

"No, I'm fine," he replied, unable to look her in the eyes.

"Very well," she said somewhat coolly, even by T'Pol standards, "your session for today is finished. Good night, Commander."

"G'night," he mumbled into his shirt as he pulled it on. He hesitated at the door, and then he asked "See you at breakfast?" as a kind of peace offering.

"0700?" she asked, apparently somewhat mollified.

"You're on," he smiled at her and left, slapping the wall outside her quarters with a grin, before half-jogging down the hall to the turbolift.

* * *

The birthday party had been a rousing success. The captain had been suitably surprised, and everyone had acted just the right amount of silly at the talent contest. The last crewmember had left. Only Tucker, T'Pol and Archer remained, with Chef hovering in the background tidying off the side tables, in case the guest of honour requested another last bit of refreshment. Archer smiled at Tucker, a refreshing sight after the last few weeks. "So, Trip, am I correct in assuming that this was your idea?"

Trip raised his eyebrows without answering, and Archer looked at T'Pol. "The entire crew participated, but Commander Tucker was the organizing force. I was somewhat sceptical of the whole concept when Mr. Reed first showed us the exploding scale model Xindi ship full of confetti he had designed, but I must admit that the idea seems to have achieved the desired effect on crew morale."

Archer grinned at her. "Not just the crew's, the captain's as well," he said. "Thanks, Trip," he said, slapping him on the shoulder. "I couldn't have wished for a better birthday. Well, it's been a long day," he continued, "and I need to get rid of this confetti that's been down my back all evening. See you two at breakfast?" he asked.

"Sure thing, Cap'n," Trip smiled back, and T'Pol nodded. As Archer reached the door, he paused and looked around the room one last time; then he looked at Tucker with an odd expression that Tucker couldn't read, and exited.

Chef nodded goodnight to the remaining two members of the senior staff and disappeared into the galley, dimming the lights somewhat as he left. Late as it was, Trip felt reluctant to stand up and spoil the mood of the evening. He looked at T'Pol, who also showed no signs of moving. There was a half bottle of wine left at the table. "Care for a last drink, Subcommander?" he asked. He had noticed that she had had a small glass of wine earlier in the evening. "Wine, or could I get you a mint tea?"

She pondered for a moment, and then replied, "A small glass of wine would be pleasant."

He poured them each a half-glass. He raised his glass to her, and she raised hers in return. "To friendship," he said.

"To friendship," she repeated, and they sat in silence for a time, sipping their drinks.

Why is she still here? Trip wondered to himself, idly running his finger around his wineglass. She stayed for the whole party, she even seemed to enjoy herself, in her own Vulcan way. And now she's sitting at a fancy table in low lighting drinking a last nightcap with me. You'd almost think ...he looked up from his glass to see her watching him. He took the plunge and said, "Tell me about Sim."

She looked up at him, expressionlessly. "What would you like to know?"

"Everybody's been treating me different somehow, and I don't know why. I have a thousand guesses as to what happened, but no one will tell me. Phlox gives me stories about what a wonderful child he was, and then gets all teary and changes the subject, and Jon just gets this look on his face and clams up. Hoshi tells me to ask the Captain and Malcolm will only tell me that he liked key lime pie. So I thought maybe you'd be honest with me."

She took a sip from her wineglass, and replaced it on the table. "Many of the crew formed an attachment to him, watching him grow up before their eyes. It was—disturbing to contemplate that he had been created to be a tissue donor and then die within a few days."

"How much like me was he?"

"He had all your memories; at times he spoke as though he believed he was you," she replied, neutrally. "As he grew older, the resemblance became very strong."

All my memories, Trip thought to himself. Oh brother. Let's just leave that one alone for now. "Did you agree with the Captain's decision to create him?"

She did not answer directly. "Iinitially, Dr. Phlox thought that the tissue transplant could be performed without danger to the symbiont. The Captain's rationale was that you were essential to the mission, and hence to the survival of the human species."

Trip shook his head. "I wish. That's just bullshit."

T'Pol nodded. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. But regardless, your survival was essential to the Captain's peace of mind. I believe that this mission could not succeed with him incapacitated by guilt, and you gone as well. So, in the end, despite the unethical nature of his decision, it may have been the right one for him. But he now has to live with the guilt of Sim's early death instead of yours."

The implications of all of this were just beginning to dawn on him. "So did he choose to die to save me?" he asked, appalled.

She was silent for a moment. "In the end. It was—not easy for him."

Trip pondered this answer. "Well that's just great. So now I'm feelin' guilty too, because the Captain's guilty, and Sim died so I could live, and they're both my fault." He twirled his wineglass for a minute.

"How did you feel about all of this?" He had used the word 'feel' deliberately; there was now no doubt in his mind that she had been affected by the entire incident as much as anyone else, although he did not know which of the many possible reasons were responsible.

She did not comment on his use of the word. "It was—difficult. I grew—fond of him."

Fond of him. All my memories. Essential to the mission. The words tumbled around in his brain, leaving him with a knot in his stomach. "So, if you'd been makin' the choice, would you have let him live?"

"It would have been less ethically disturbing," she replied, evading his eyes.

His stomach tied up even tighter.

"But the answer is no," she continued, after a moment. "Given the circumstances, it would not have been logical." In spite of herself, she found herself thinking back to the few moments spent with Sim that had left her so indelibly changed.

He observed the expressions that had flitted across her face, and his heart had skipped a few beats as he realized he was seeing signs of real emotion that she was unable to suppress. Emotion for Sim? After a moment, she looked up directly into Trip's searching eyes. She was heartachingly reminded of Sim's expression as he had revealed his feelings for her.

"There's somethin' else, isn't there?" he inquired, unable to desist despite his better judgement. "Somethin' happened—with you? What was it?"

"I think," she said quietly, "it would probably be better for both of us if I did not answer." But she was unable to drag her eyes away from his.

He felt his stomach flutter and he held her eyes. "Come on, T'Pol, I feel as if I spent a week walking around this ship, having a life with my friends, that I've lost completely. He said and did things, things that left everyone on this ship actin' like they don't know how to take me anymore, and maybe he did them because he was me, and no one will talk to me," he continued, frustrated.

He deserves to know, she thought to herself. He deserves to know everything, but how can any of us go back to where we were? To the people we were before Sim entered our lives?

He could see her thinking, still unwilling to talk to him. He was starting to feel dizzy from holding his breath, he realized, and let it out with a rush. "I'm at the end of my rope, T'Pol," he said, "Talk to me. I know the T'Pol that came aboard this ship wouldn't have taken the kind of risk that telling me could mean. But you're not that person anymore."

Watching her, he realized with disbelief that she was struggling for control. What the hell had happened during that week? Then she stood abruptly, and left the mess hall without looking back. As the doors closed behind her, Trip ran his fingers through his hair and said aloud to himself, bitterly, "Damn, Trip, you really did it this time." Then the door opened again, and he looked up to see her standing there. He stayed frozen, waiting to see what she would do.

"I believe," she said uncertainly, her eyes panning from the window over to his face, "you are correct. I am not that person." She turned again and left.

This time, he followed her.

* * *

He had followed her into her quarters without asking for permission. She seemed almost oblivious to his presence as she walked over to the viewport and stared out at the Expanse. He paused, uncertain for a moment, and then continued over to stand behind her left shoulder, where he could at least partly see her face.

She turned her head a fraction toward him for a moment, without looking in his direction. "I am suffering from an illness."

This was completely out of left field and he shook his head, trying to make sense of it.

"It is a degenerative neural disease, potentially fatal," she continued, still gazing at the slowly moving stars as if they held something of particular importance.

His stomach was now in his boots. "Potentially fatal?" he repeated, unable to formulate an intelligent sentence.

She cocked her head briefly in a manner that he knew from experience meant she was irritated, and this time looked directly at him. "I believe that is what I said."

Now suddenly, senselessly angry, he snapped at her. "For god's sake T'Pol, spit it out! The whole story!"

She nodded and said, in a tired voice, "Very well. You recall our encounter with the V'tosh ka'tur," she started, "the Vulcans without logic."

"Yeah," he agreed dubiously, sinking to the edge of her bed, his legs not offering reliable support.

"And do you remember Tolaris?"

"You spent a fair bit of time with him studying the nebula," Trip recalled.

"He had a personal interest in me. He attempted to convince me that I should consider following their ways, and embrace my emotions," she revealed impassively. "I allowed him to experiment with an ancient mind technique. In doing so, I contracted from him a disease of the mind called Pa'nar syndrome. The pathology is complex, but it involves a degradation of a number of the normal neural pathways of the brain."

He had the feeling that she was glossing over a considerable portion of the story, but he couldn't focus on all the information at once. "You said potentially fatal. Are you getting treatment? That was two years ago! You haven't been actin' sick!"

"Dr. Phlox has been treating me. He has improved on some of the available treatments considerably over the last year," she replied stoically.

She could be discussing some abstract case study rather than her own condition, Trip thought, frustrated by her attitude. "So, what's the prognosis?" he asked baldly, cutting to the chase. If she could be coldly clinical, so could he.

"The progression of the disease has been slowed significantly," she answered him. "But the events of the last few months have made it apparent that my mental control is greatly weakened." She paused and turned back to look out the window.

"Go on," he prompted, still irrationally angry with her. "Keep talkin'."

"Suffice it to say that there are times when it takes every bit of my concentration to prevent myself from shouting in anger, or breaking something," she continued, her calm tone in stark contrast to her words. He looked at her, stunned into silence for a moment. "But," he finally continued, "you're not dyin' any time soon? It's under control?"

"More or less," she agreed. "It is debilitating but none of the vital pathways have showed any further degradation since Dr. Phlox refined his treatments."

"Okay," he said, almost to himself. "Okay then. Give me a bit to absorb this, T'Pol." After a moment of consideration, he realized that so far she had not explained how this revelation related to the events of the previous weeks. "We're comin' back to this, but," he urged her, "what about Sim?"

She winced slightly. "My loss of control affected my relationship with him."

"Affected how?" he prompted, after a long pause.

She looked directly at him again, and he could see her struggling with whether to tell him. "He told me that he had deep feelings for me. I found myself reciprocating them."

He felt panic overwhelm him. He had my memories. Oh shit. She reciprocated them? His anxiety was evident as he spoke. "What do ya mean reciprocated?"

"I discovered that I had feelings for him also." She paused. "He also told me he was not sure if those feelings were his, or yours. I found myself similarly unsure if my feelings were for him ...or you."

Something tightened in his chest till he feared he would be unable to breathe. "And what did you decide?"

"It was an academic question," she replied, her voice catching slightly. "He was you. In the end I found myself unable to tell the difference."

Now it was Tucker who could not look at her. He stared at his hands between his knees. She watched him but said nothing. Finally he looked up. "T'Pol, they were my feelings. But I wasn't going to tell you. You and me, it's just not possible. You're Vulcan, I'm human, we're both officers that shouldn't be fraternizin', we've got a life or death mission, and ..." he paused for a moment. "And I don't think it'd make the Captain real happy."

And that is the real reason, she thought to herself. She stifled a sigh and turned back to the window. "I believe you are correct, Commander. It is better that way." After another long pause in which neither of them could find words, she continued, "It is late. You should return to your quarters and get some rest."

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but found himself still with nothing to say. He stood, but paused at the door and turned back to look at her. "Still friends, T'Pol?"

She returned his gaze solemnly. "Still friends, Commander Tucker."

He smiled a bit unsteadily, and said gently, "Trip. My friends call me Trip."

"Trip ..." she murmured, as the door closed behind him.

* * *

Time had passed, as it does. They had encountered Xindi, and other species. They had found the weapon, and had discovered the secret behind the spheres that caused the spatial anomalies responsible for the Expanse. And they had finally made their peace with three of the five Xindi species, leaving the remaining two to find other prey, as was their wont. In the process, Enterprise and her crew had taken a considerable beating, and the doctor as well as the staff of Engineering had worked non-stop simply keeping the ship in one piece.

Their return voyage was made considerably easier by the charts of the anomalies that T'Pol and Mayweather had compiled over the course of the trip. Although this should have improved their speed, the damage that they had incurred made it necessary to stop repeatedly for repair parts that had to be jury-rigged to keep them going.

For the most part, Trip spent sixteen-hour days in Engineering, poring over alien technology in order to make it compatible with the ship's systems. He worked himself hard, for he needed distraction. In many ways, he found his situation greatly improved over that of a few months previously. The distance that had arisen between himself and the Captain had largely disappeared; the surprise party seemed to have been a catalyst that brought Jon back closer to the old friend he had been. They had fallen back into a routine of occasional evenings spent together in Jon's quarters, watching sports and discussing ship's business.

He no longer awoke, sweating, from dreams of Lizzie being consumed by a massive wall of destruction. Instead, he awoke sweating from dreams of another woman much closer to hand, and yet as unreachable to him now as his sister. Dreams that recalled to him the one breathless, passionate instance in which they had succumbed, a torrent of endless time in her quarters, until guilt and duty had once again driven them apart.

The two senior officers still worked together well, perhaps better than ever in fact, for there was no longer any of the sniping that had for so long characterized their relationship. Neither was there any of the teasing or gentle camaraderie that had also been the best part of it. Their working relationship was professional and efficient. He had learned to ignore, then finally deny, the longing he felt for her each night as he returned to his quarters alone.

T'Pol had managed to put it all behind her. She could spend time in the Chief Engineer's presence without feeling that impending loss of control that had overcome her previously—perhaps Phlox's treatments had mended the damaged synapses in her brain, or perhaps the infatuation she had felt for Tucker had passed. She was once more the cool, clinical Vulcan, incapable of feeling the type of emotion that he had aroused in her for a brief time.

If occasionally she experienced a brief twinge when she saw his familiar figure enter the room unexpectedly, or when he ran his fingers through his hair in that way he had when tired or exasperated, it had no relevance. If she allowed her gaze to linger on him a few moments longer than necessary when he was unaware, it was merely in an attempt to ascertain his state of health as a good first officer should, for he was working himself harder than was wise. And if sometimes, when she slept at night, she had dreams of him that no amount of meditation could alleviate, surely it was a small price to pay for the control she had achieved during the day.

For she had other, more important issues to concern her: her future on Vulcan was far from assured, given her history of misbehaviour since her assignment to Enterprise. Her broken engagement, her disagreement with the Vulcan High Command over the listening post on P'Jem, her defiance of orders in order to come with Enterprise to the Expanse, her Pa'Nar syndrome, had all left her persona non grata with a variety of factions on Vulcan. She could be sure of nothing except a difficult return, with many questions to answer, much penance required, and no possibility of a marriage bond.

The fact that her presence on Enterprise had certainly been instrumental in preventing a catastrophic war between Earth and the Xindi would, to some extent, mitigate her treatment back on Vulcan. On the other hand, there were groups on Vulcan who felt that had the humans stayed on Earth where they belonged none of this would have happened, and therefore anything that resulted was merely a form of galactic justice, proving that they had been right all along in holding the humans back as long as they had.

Would they post her back to Earth, as one of the few Vulcans who had managed to work in harmony with humans on a prolonged basis? Or would they rather view this success as evidence that she required some form of cure, either intensive training on Vulcan, or a remote post as far from humanity as possible? And which of these options would be the best?

For some reason, the idea of being posted to Earth caused her thoughts to skit away in all directions, while the options of remaining on Vulcan or being posted elsewhere left her with a vague sense of incompleteness. I could be somewhere that my unique skills with humanity can be put to use, she told herself. Surely those skills should not be discounted when I return, in the name of logic, and conformity to our social structure. But these are the strengths of our society—my needs are not paramount.

She focussed her meditation on her role and responsibilities, spending each evening in her quarters and for the most part avoiding those social interactions with the crew that she had engaged in for a time.

Still, she had been unable to fully return to her former demeanour; the other crewmembers noticed in her a tolerance for their "human" behaviour, and a concerned appreciation for them as individuals, that persisted despite her resumption of a certain distance in social circumstances. There was some speculation as to the cause of the change in her, some hitting closer to the mark than others, but after a few months it was once more accepted as normal and comment died away.

The Captain did not seem to have noticed any change in her interactions with the crew or Commander Tucker. She suspected that he had for so long been consumed by the Xindi quest that he had not realized that there had ever been any change in the first place; he had rarely observed her with the rest of the crew over those months he had spent sequestered in the command centre, poring over star charts and analyzing the contents of the Xindi database.

Still, she found the Captain the most difficult to maintain her recovered poise with, for in his presence she found herself still experiencing last vestiges of the emotions she had once again mastered. With him, she experienced envy—envy of the way the crew had once more accepted back their old Captain, forgiving him his lapse into darkness; and envy of his renewed closeness with Commander Tucker, and her exclusion from that closeness—an exclusion that she encouraged and yet which still gnawed at her subconscious as she meditated alone in her quarters each night and retired, alone, to bed.

Time passed, as it does, bringing to each of them relief from pain, but no solace.

* * *

Trip picked up the cooler full of ice and carried it over to place it under the window. He pulled back the curtain and looked out at the drizzle that had continued to fall for the last three days non-stop. Humphrey was out there somewhere, soggy and mad as hell in all likelihood, but not having enough sense to come in out of the rain.

"Trip!" he heard Hoshi calling over the party noise in the background, "Are you coming with more drinks or do we have to go out and buy them for ourselves?"

"Coming," he yelled back, dropping the curtain back into place. He grabbed a few bottles from the cooler and headed back into the living room. Jon was telling a story about the Tandaran ambassador and a jar of spaghetti sauce that had even the usually sober-sided Malcolm in stitches.

Trip stood at the door, feeling a warm glow as he surveyed his friends. He was lucky, how many people had friends like these? The Captain's birthday had become an excuse for a regular "surprise" party that was even more special now that most of them saw so much less of one another. He leaned against the doorframe, listening to them trying to outdo each other with stories and jokes.

Tucker's mind wandered back to the party last year, held at Malcolm's town house on the east side of the Bay. It had been a day much like this one, as it often was this time of year in San Francisco. The year before they had still been on Enterprise, before their recall to Earth for a refit. And the year before that ...his smile faded at the recollection of the events of that night, still capable of causing a knot in the pit of his stomach after three years.

He shook his head, as if to shake the unwelcome thoughts from his head. His glance landed on Phlox, who had been sitting beside the window watching his fellow party-goers with a keen eye and that perpetual smile on his face. Phlox was watching him, and a thoughtful expression flitted across his face. Then the smile resumed and he returned his attention to the ongoing conversation. Tucker supposed that his behaviour this evening was a bit out of character; tonight he didn't feel like the life of the party, despite how much he enjoyed having his old friends around, rare as it was.

He mentally reviewed their lives now. Hoshi had returned to the University, where she now taught more than fifteen different languages, and the others had been reassigned to a variety of Starfleet departments—except of course for Travis who was back out in space, unable to spend very long on solid ground. He'd sent a message for the party with his best regards, a bottle of champagne, and an announcement that he was getting married. They'd all toasted him, each feeling joy and probably more than a little envy over his newfound happiness.

"To absent friends," Jon had stated as he raised his glass. And there was one more absent friend; there had been no reply to the invitation to attend that Hoshi had sent to Vulcan. Trip was sure that Jon's toast had been meant to include T'Pol as well, and the thought had subdued his mood even further. Trip had asked Hoshi why she continued to invite T'Pol, who had never returned to Earth even for the ceremonial functions that had followed Enterprise's return to Earth after their peace with the Xindi—the medals, the promotion banquets, the launch of the Warp seven project, the commemoration of the war memorial.

She had looked at him with a small smile and replied, "You'll see. One day she'll show up." He had wondered then how much she knew of what had transpired between him and T'Pol; one of her natural talents as a linguist was the ability to read body language, even alien body language ...he had shrugged in disbelief and replied, "The last time she barely even answered. Don't expect more this time."

* * *

T'Pol stood outside in the late afternoon dark of the winter solstice and wondered, not for the first time, why the humans had chosen to locate Starfleet headquarters in a city where the climate was so perpetually dank. Of course, if she simply walked up to his door and rang the bell, her physical discomfort would be alleviated as she was ushered into what appeared to be a warm, inviting location, the glow from the windows lighting up the mist outside. A faint burst of laughter from inside reminded her of why she was there, and what had been missing from her life for the past years.

The chain of events that had led her to this moment tumbled through her head. Arriving on Enterprise, and dealing with the hostility of the crew towards the Vulcan interloper. Her first pivotal interaction with Commander Tucker, when he had convinced her to stay rather than returning to Vulcan to attend her own wedding. Her gradual acceptance by the crew over that first year. The fateful encounter that had left her with the disease that had nearly cost her her hard-won Vulcan control. Her decision to remain on Enterprise and defy Soval's order to return to Vulcan. The creation of Sim and all that had resulted. The one night she and Tucker had shared that had shaken her to her foundations. Her decision to return to Vulcan rather than remain with the humans—remain with him.

For in the weeks following that decision, she knew that had she reconsidered and spoken to him, just once, it would have gone differently. She knew that he had wanted to speak to her, but she had closed him off, afraid of what he could still do to her. He had not communicated with her since she had left Enterprise. And why would he? She had made it clear that she did not wish him to.

And then the last event that had let up to her standing here, in the rain, wet and chilly. Eight weeks ago, she had received two messages. The first from Hoshi, reminding her of the party and encouraging her warmly to attend. She had set that one aside, promising to deal with it later. Then, shortly after, she had received a message from Phlox, a live transmission this time.

"You're looking well T'Pol," he had chirruped, in his usual cheerful manner.

"The treatments you have instituted for me continue to alleviate my symptoms to a large extent," she replied, literal as always. "You also look well, Doctor. Your posting at the Interspecies Medical Exchange must continue to be satisfactory." Her many years spent with humans had taught her the art of social pleasantries.

"Oh yes, indeed, highly satisfactory," he concurred. "In fact, I had somewhat of a breakthrough on a particular case I've been researching. I've been verifying my results non-stop for the last few weeks, and it is looking very like a cure is at hand."

"How gratifying for you, Doctor," she said politely, distractedly wondering why he had placed such an expensive call at this time.

He smiled again and continued, "Aren't you interested in the case, T'Pol?"

Her attention once again focussed on him and she felt a wave of disbelief pass over her. "Pa'Nar syndrome? You are still researching it?"

"Most actively," he replied, "and successfully I must say. It appears as though I have found a cure, and believe me, it was a real challenge, since I had to find information from some very reluctant Vulcan sources in order to begin to approach the solution..."

She interrupted him. "A cure? You have a cure?" "I believe that's what I've been saying," he replied indulgently. "And by the time you get here, I will be ready to commence the treatments."

"To Earth?" She was still disoriented, her world suddenly turned upside down. For so long now, she had lived with the knowledge that her mental functions and her emotional control were impaired by her condition, her lifespan in all likelihood significantly shortened, and that she would be a pariah amongst her people for the rest of her life if the truth of her condition were ever to be known.

"I have all of my facilities here, and my assistants, yes, it would be much simpler if you came here. However, if that is impossible, I can organize things to come to Vulcan, it will just take a bit longer—and I will have to explain why I need a leave of absence," he continued, obligingly.

"That will not be necessary," she replied, trying to gather her wits. "I will come to Earth."

"Excellent, you'll need to make some arrangements I'm sure," he said. "I'm downloading a file to you right now that explains all the details, as I'm sure you have plenty of questions."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor," she had agreed. "I will contact you with my plans as soon as possible."

It had taken little organization to arrange her trip to Earth—she had some six years of accumulated leave and no one questioned her sudden requirement. She suspected that, in general, most of her co-workers were relieved she would be gone, for she did not mix well with her fellow Vulcans after so many years of human company, and it was a struggle still to maintain control as a result of all of her experiences. Her family, too, had seemed to encourage her trip to Earth; she had not shared her medical condition with them, but they surely knew there was something wrong, and whether they thought the trip to Earth could help, or would simply remove a nagging problem from their vicinity for a time, she was unsure.

As she made the arrangements for her absence, she had contemplated the changes that would ensue if Phlox's cure were successful. The melders' lives would be changed, some of the stigma of their condition removed, although such realizations would take time, for a society as slow to change as theirs. Her life would change along with theirs, slowly also perhaps. There would no longer be any reason for her to remain without a husband ...or at least a Vulcan husband. She could, if she chose, reintegrate herself into Vulcan society. But was that what she wanted? As she had meditated on board the ship bringing her to Earth, trying to centre herself before returning to the maelstrom of human culture, the journey had seemed both far too short, and interminable.

Fatefully, ironically, her ship had docked last night, two days early, with the shuttle bringing her to San Francisco this morning. And she had known where Dr. Phlox would be this afternoon. She had stood at the bottom of the ramp after leaving the shuttle, realizing that in any case she had no plan once she arrived. She did not have a place to go, although there were of course a number of options open to her. No one but Phlox was expecting her, and he not for two days.

Why had she not called him to announce her early arrival? Was it because, under it all, she had been looking for an excuse to be here, now?

She felt her courage failing her and she hesitated, turning away from the brightly lit windows and all that lay behind them.

* * *

Down the hallway behind him, Trip heard a demanding meow from the beyond the front door, and he headed to let Humphrey in. As he opened the door, the cat brushed into the house past his legs, anxious to come in from the ceaseless wet. About to close the door, he noticed a figure standing at the bottom of the steps, at the edge of the light from the streetlamp.

He knew it was her immediately, in spite of the heavy mist and the hooded coat she had pulled up to cover her face. She appeared to have been turning to walk away. His heart skipped a beat and he stood there, afraid to move for fear he would frighten her away once again. How long had she been standing there?

She stared up at him, mesmerized. He was exactly as she remembered him. She wondered then what madness had taken her over that she could not see the logic in it, in their relationship. As she had when she refused Soval's order to return to Vulcan before Enterprise's departure into the Expanse, she felt her life was heading in a direction she could not predict. But finally, she was sure that decision she had made years ago to forsake the well-trodden path prescribed by her Vulcan upbringing had been the right one, the only choice to make. She threw her hood back, stepped forward and climbed the steps into his house.

She stood dripping in his front hall, and all conversational ability left him. He thought he'd put her behind him, that she could no longer have that effect on him, and yet three years later he was still tongue-tied by her unexpected presence.

"You came," he managed to say.

"Yes," she agreed. She searched his face, and then said, somewhat hesitantly, "Am I welcome? I did not reply to the invitation."

Without thinking, he replied instinctively, "Always, you know that."

She gazed at him silently, and then, slowly she stepped forward and kissed him gently on the lips, her hands resting lightly on his chest.

Stunned into silence, his stomach now performing somersaults, he stared at her. He wondered if she felt what a human would feel after what she had just done: lack of certainty in his response, fear of rejection, hesitant desire? Were they her feelings, or his? All he knew was that she was here. He pulled her into a wordless embrace, mindless of the water from her coat soaking into his clothes. She fitted against his chest as though she had been designed for it, and they stood, silently, for a seemingly endless time.

Finally he stood back and said, his voice rough with emotion, "You better not be plannin' on breakin' my heart again."

"I have no desire to return to Vulcan," she replied obliquely, suddenly realizing it was true. "Therefore, I will need accommodation somewhere on Earth. This house seems somewhat large for one person," she continued. "Perhaps we could come to some arrangement, if you were willing?"

The hell, he thought, gaping at her, I've just been propositioned, or proposed to, or whatever Vulcans do, in that logical, unromantic fashion they have of arranging their family lives. And what's so wrong with that? Then he laughed out loud, and said, "Do you think I'd let you leave this time?" And then pulling her coat off and grabbing her hand, he dragged her into the merriment in the living room, joyfully exclaiming to the startled faces that turned their way, "Look what the cat dragged in!"

* * *

_Coda_

Trip awoke, sweating and aching, from a vivid dream in which T'Pol had shown up at his door, and had ended up in his bed. He groaned at the memories that once again seemed so real and tried to roll over, but discovered that his left arm had gone to sleep. He opened his eyes and turned his head, to see her lying on his left shoulder, her delicate ear silhouetted in the moonlight that streamed through the bedroom window behind her, since the drizzle had dissipated.

He had awoken her, and she murmured drowsily, "Are you well?"

He felt his throat close and his eyes brimmed. "Oh yeah," he managed to say, pulling her more tightly to him despite the discomfort, "I am now." He watched possessively as she allowed her eyes to close again, worn out by what had undoubtedly been a long day and night of travel, festivities, and glorious lovemaking. Tomorrow was going to be a beautiful day, he thought, looking out at the clear San Francisco night. It was a good sign.


End file.
